


sometimes we don't rise from the ashes

by wolfstarheart



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, M/M, Post-War, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfstarheart/pseuds/wolfstarheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things get better after the War. </p><p>Some things don't. </p><p>This is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes we don't rise from the ashes

Draco and Harry are rebuilding just like the rest of the Wizarding World. As the blocks of Hogwarts went up, cemented together with sweat and blood spilt in the war and tears from the losses they had all suffered, they piece back their relationship too, and suddenly they have a home again. 

They are both so different now. Older, and darker, and a little bit more broken. But they are the same, really: Harry still gets off on the right side of the bed, even if it means climbing over Draco, and Draco still taps his feet together when he's nervous. Even Voldemort can't change that. 

But Voldemort had changed so much. Draco wakes up more often than not with his mind racing and his hands shaking, breathing sharply and trying to forget, forget everything. But what he forces out of his mind comes back during unconsciousness, weaves into his dreams and turns them into nightmares. 

And Harry? Harry doesn't have the luxury of bad dreams. Or of any dreams, really, because he barely even sleeps these days. He may have saved them from Voldemort, but now he has to save them from themselves, has to talk to survivors and visit widows and find homes for the children that had nowhere to go. 

Who will save Harry?

Who will be the savior of the savior?

So many questions, and not enough strength to answer them. Draco is tired, so tired, but he forces himself out of bed every morning, makes breakfast because otherwise Harry will forget, being so caught up in all his duties. He wishes he could do more, wishes he isn't so fucking useless (just like he had been in the war, he thinks furiously) but his job is to stay at home, to wait for Harry to come back from stitching up the Wizarding world so that he can try to stitch up Harry. And sometimes, needles and thread isn’t enough to cover a gaping hole. 

Days bleed into weeks and weeks bleed into months and suddenly they are stained red from murder and it is the middle of winter; and Harry is colder and so is outside and Draco just sits in front of the fire all day, trying to stop himself from freezing to death. 

And then one day it's dark and inside it's darker and so Draco barely notices when Harry Apparates home; his hair's bedraggled and his eyes are squeezed shut and his cloak's dripping water all over the floor, and then suddenly Harry just sits down slowly and lets the rain trickle down him and doesn't move at all; and Draco walks over and sits next to him and draws hearts in the puddles on the linoleum as if that would heal theirs. 

Somewhere along the line he realizes that Harry’s face wasn't just wet with water but he doesn't say anything, can't say anything. Maybe he doesn't want to say anything. It wouldn’t help anyway. Nothing Draco could do would help. 

When Harry doesn't budge, when he just shivers and shivers but doesn't even try to make things better, Draco sighs and stands up. When Harry is ready, Draco figures, he’d follow him into the bedroom, and they’d have sex and wake up the next morning with bruises on their necks and repeat the whole thing over again. That's all they do these days and Harry isn’t usually one to break routines. 

And then he does, so quietly Draco almost doesn't hear it— though there’s no way he wouldn’t, because Harry’s voice to him was the loudest of all— “Don’t go. Stay with me. Please.”

And Draco wants to leave, wants to break free from this never-ending cycle of dependency , but he knows he won’t. So he sits back down, and presses his lips to Harry’s, and tries to breathe some hair into his lungs because he’s afraid Harry’ll just suffocate to death otherwise. 

Later, he brings out the dinner, and Harry still hasn’t moved, so they have a picnic—of sorts—on the floor. Draco doesn’t talk about ruining the floorboards, and Harry doesn’t talk at all. 

Later in the morning, Draco wakes up with his eyeliner smeared and his lips swollen and his skin sticky and cold. They stayed on the floor; Harry just didn’t want to get up. But now Draco’s alone on the floor, and feels a strange twinge of bitterness, because Harry tries so hard for every goddamn wizard, witch and muggle, and he’s the only exception. 

Before, he’d thought of it as a good thing. That he was the only one Harry trusts to fully break down in front of. Now it just feels like a burden. Him weighing Harry down, Harry weighing him down, them weighing the rest of the world down. 

He stands up. Doesn’t bother to brush his teeth or even put on better clothes. He won’t need to, where he’s going. 

If last night was cold and soggy and raining, this morning is even more so. And it fits, somehow, like even the universe is just fucking sick of it all. And so Draco’s drenched in rain when he Apparates over to Hogwarts— it’s Friday, and since he’s dating Harry he has automatic permission to be there at all times, even if there are students still there, as there are now. Still, he avoids the castle, going instead to the lake, which has been blocked off due to irreparable damage during the war. 

He stands by the edge, just looking at the murky water. He can barely see through what used to be nearly transparent, now that the rubble and dust has blackened the liquid. It’s strangely calm, now that the Giant Squid is dead, but Draco hates the stillness. It’s almost scary, that the lake isn’t alive anymore. 

But then again, he won’t be either, if this goes to plan. 

He remembers being back here, at the highest point overlooking the Great Lake, nearly three years ago. They were in, what, sixth year? Harry had found him looking over the edge, crying, and had stayed up all night talking to Draco to distract him from what he’d come there to do. And then when Draco had fallen asleep in his arms, Harry had taken him back to his dorms, even though it was extremely dangerous for him to be there at the time, and wrapped him up in his comforter before leaving. 

Back then, Harry made things better. 

Now, that’s his job. 

He’s not very good at it. 

Maybe that’s why he’s here. 

Draco peers over the edge. He knows he’s not going to jump in easily. He’s not reckless or spontaneous like Harry. He’ll think over it, try to leave a note for Harry. Something that will explain this. Though he doesn’t think anything could fully do that. 

But he looks right across the lake, at the ground on the other side, and realizes he won’t have to— because Harry’s there already, in the exact same position he’s in, and they’re staring at each other with such intensity that Draco wants to break apart from it but physically is unable too. 

He realizes he can hear Harry’s breathing, echoing across the body of water, and doesn’t know why that’s significant, but it is. 

“I thought I was supposed to save you,” Harry calls emptily. 

“I thought I was supposed to save you,” Draco replies. 

Their voices are warped, distorted, and yet it’s the most clear and honest either of them have been to each other in awhile. 

“We’re not very good at this,” Harry sighs at last. 

“No, we aren’t,” Draco agrees. 

They stand up, Draco first and Harry a moment later, and stand there looking at the lake with some mixture of longing and regret. 

Then they Disapparate away; Harry to St. Mungos, probably, and Draco back home. He knows that when Harry gets back, they won't talk about it. They'll eat dinner, whether that's on the floor or on the dining table, and they'll sleep together and wake up and it'll be like nothing ever happened. 

But it doesn't matter. 

They can face the storm another day.


End file.
